


Your love is better than (Spanish) chocolate

by Blake



Series: Ballet Direction [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 17/18 age difference, Ballet AU, Ballet Fic, Cisgirl! One Direction, F/F, Genderbend, Girl Direction, Humor, Knitwear, Lesbians, Pas de deux, groping under tights, nutcracker jokes, sweat stains, sweet silly teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 01:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12853965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Harry is invited to practise her Snow Queen solo in a post-class rehearsal with Louis Tomlinson, who is only the most beautiful, charming, talented ex-Sugar Plum Fairy in the whole world.





	Your love is better than (Spanish) chocolate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



> Happy birthday [Phoenix](http://horsegirlharry.tumblr.com)! You deserve all the pretty things in the whole world. This is in part a gift from Jen and Kim, too, because they helped out so much with editing (Jen) and supplying photo inspiration (Kim.) Thank you lovelies for your help!

“Five, six, seven, eight, and hold.”

On command, Harry holds both her breath and the pose. It’s a bad habit. Her vision starts to go fuzzy amid the sounds of her instructor clapping to the beat of Tchaikovsky’s _Nutcracker Suite _and Niall’s clunking pointe shoe, but it’s only a matter of seconds before her eyes fall on Louis (because that’s where they always, inevitably, fall). Louis’s in front of her in their diagonal formation, lowered to one knee with her arms curved above her head, back heaving with her laboured breaths, the expanding and contracting muscles highlighted by the sheen of thick sweat that’s dripping down to darken the royal blue of her leotard into something closer to navy. Harry should probably start breathing again.__

__She gasps and sputters pathetically as the oxygen enters her lungs, but no one turns to her in surprise. Louis’s eyelashes flutter low, as though her eyes shifted to look at Harry behind her, but other than that, she remains in perfect profile._ _

__Oh, right. Because she has her head in the proper position, tilted slightly back and facing the (imagined) audience. She isn’t staring dumbly ahead at the girl in front of her, probably because the girl in front of her isn’t a super fit, strong, gorgeous, friendly, stubborn, hilarious ball of fire named Louis Tomlinson; probably because Louis isn’t gay. Well, that’s a lie. Harry thinks that Louis’s at least a little bit gay, but she isn’t as gay as Harry is. Harry’s really gay. Harry spends an unhealthy amount of time drooling over Louis during every ballet class, and Harry goes to ballet class close to every day of the week, which translates into a whole lot of unhealthy._ _

__Thanks to the near-constant state of distraction she finds herself in around Louis, Harry totally misses her next cue. The music does a thing, Niall does a spritely _jeté_ off to stage left (which is really just the corner of the studio where everyone’s bags and shoes are piled up in a mess), and Harry rises from her knees three seconds after noticing that all the other dancers in her line are already up on their feet._ _

__“Harry, you’re late again,” their instructor Paula yells over the music, and Harry rolls her eyes under her lids. She _knows_ she’s late, that she’s always missing her cues. It’s Louis’s fault; she’s like quicksand to Harry’s attention, and having it brought up by Paula’s constant “corrections” doesn’t make Harry any less besotted._ _

__Without acknowledging Paula, Harry proceeds with the choreography, following Louis in a circle of sixteen running girls that turns into a figure eight of sixteen running girls. (Harry doesn’t understand how this transformation happens, exactly. She just follows Louis because she’s always the first in class to memorize new choreography.)_ _

__After they run “offstage,” Niall goes on for another series of turns. Harry grabs onto the top barre and sinks to the floor, wiggling her hips around in various extended squats to pull her shoulders into a stretch as she watches Niall do her best Dewdrop variation in her white, knee-length tutu. Niall’s a charming, confident dancer, and the crowds always love her big presence and bright stage smile, but her footwork isn’t the cleanest. Louis would do it better._ _

__Probably because Louis does _everything_ better. She could dance this particular ballet’s Dewdrop, Snow Queen, Spanish, Russian, _definitely_ Sugar Plum Fairy, and even Arabian, and they would all be Harry’s favourite version of each. The way she moves is just incredible. _Perfect_. Grounded, with a low centre of gravity but with thighs strong enough to lift herself far off the floor. Compact in a way that makes every movement look tidy and precise, like she’s in control of every inch of her body. And when she forces one foot on full pointe, stretching her arch up over the top of her toe in little pulses of shifted body weight, it’s apparent that her ankle is the most beautiful joint on earth, the curve of it so gentle, so sleek yet muscular from years of pointe work, bitable all the way down to the slightly tapered satin box of her Freed shoe where it kisses the ground._ _

__Harry has officially stopped watching Niall’s solo work, completely lost in quicksand again as Louis starts stretching out said ankles. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles big, which happens when their fellow Waltzing Flower, Veronica, walks past with all her weight on her heels, as though she has blisters on her toes and is avoiding putting any pressure on them. Louis starts poking a finger into Veronica’s (frighteningly tiny) waist, her voice high and crackling as she sings the “Arabian Nights” song from _Aladdin_ over the sound of Tchaikovsky. (Veronica is half-Pakistani and _hates_ performing solos, but Paula cast her as the Arabian Coffee soloist anyway, and Louis has been trying to make her feel better ever since by drawing everyone’s attention to the absurdity of the fucking awkward racial stereotypes in the _Nutcracker_. If the shy smile on Veronica’s stupidly gorgeous face is anything to go by, it’s helping.)_ _

__“Keep it down, girls!” Paula shouts, even as she stops the music and comes to the centre of the room to work on something with Niall._ _

__Louis shakes her short-cropped, fluffy brown hair out of her face and makes a half-smirking, half-sad twist of an expression because the reprimand was directed solely at her. When Paula isn’t busy telling Harry off for being a space cadet, she’s on top of Louis for being too clever and quick for her own good. Louis’s technique is the best at their school, but Harry has noticed that she’s really…lazy. Like, she’ll plop onto the floor between combinations at the barre, not to stretch, just to sit. When someone else is rehearsing, like now, she’ll use the time for socializing instead of learning from observation or perfecting something they’re collectively working on. She’ll stretch the limits of free dress day to include _colours that aren’t black_. If she doesn’t feel like doing a combination, she just _won’t do it_ (when she _does_ feel like doing it, she jumps twice as high and lands twice as cleanly as Liam, the resident class perfectionist). Paula doesn’t like this about Louis, but Harry finds it incredibly attractive._ _

__“Will you still stay after again, Louis?” asks Liam, who has snuck up to wrap her arms around Veronica’s waist, resting her chin on the crook of Veronica’s shoulder. Harry doesn’t know if they’re a thing, or if they’re just…normal straight girls? She finds it all very difficult to navigate._ _

__“ _Again_ , Liam?” Louis sighs, so much exasperation in her voice that it must be mocking. Safe in her eavesdropping corner, Harry wonders what exactly it is that Liam and Louis stay after class to do on a Saturday afternoon. Drugs? Witchcraft?_ _

__“I’m out, girls...v’got three novels I’m supposed to’ve read by Monday,” groans Veronica._ _

__“But you’re the tall one,” Liam whines as Harry tries to remember if there’s something in _The Craft_ about needing a tall person in your coven._ _

__And before she can stop herself, she pipes up, “I'm tall!” Harry has an attention-seeking streak that occasionally causes her to invite herself somewhat awkwardly into other people’s conversations. Only after three heads turn her way does she realize that she’s contorted into a pretzel, hanging from the barre at the other girls’ feet, underarm stubble on full display as well as one half of her bum._ _

__“Hear that, girls? Harry’s tall,” Louis says, her gaze traveling up the length of Harry’s legs with an intention that makes Harry’s throat get tight and hot. At the _very_ least, Louis looks at her like a gay person looks at another gay person in acknowledgment and appreciation, but Harry desperately wants that appreciation to be more along the lines of _checking her out_. Nothing makes her want to stick her arse up in the air more than Louis’s eyes raking over her, so she does. Sticks her arse up in the air. Considering that she’s on the floor, with one leg extended out and the other crossed over it at a ninety-degree angle, her arse probably isn’t getting its point across very well._ _

__Liam’s voice is very crisp and seemingly oblivious to Harry’s arse. “You wanna be my Nutcracker Prince?”_ _

__Harry’s hips drop flat to the floor. “What?” she gasps, wincing at the impact on her hip bones. She pulls herself upright and rolls over to sit down properly on her traitorous (and flat) arse._ _

__“Louis’s helping me with my Sugar Plum variations, but I need a partner for the _pas de deux_ , and Etienne is only here on Thursdays.”_ _

__“Boys only have to work one day for every six that we do,” Harry’s mouth says without consulting her brain’s “Is this relevant?” filter (assuming her brain has one and actually uses it)._ _

__The potential irrelevance is fucking worth it, though, because Louis snaps her delicate, black-lacquered fingertips and announces with delight, “I knew I liked her!”_ _

__Harry feels her eyes grow wide. “You did?” she asks, because learning that Louis likes her and has _thought_ about liking her is the greatest news she’s heard all day._ _

__Louis snorts in laughter and opens her mouth to speak, but Liam reaches over Veronica to clasp her hand over Louis’s mouth, sighing, “Let’s not start on that subject again, shall we.”_ _

__Harry kind of wants to pout, but she looks up at Louis, with her amused eyes twinkling above the muzzle of Liam’s small hand, at Veronica, with her glamorous makeup and her lacy, black, long-sleeve leotard that looks like a dream, and at Liam, with her perfectly gelled-back bun that doesn’t detract from the earnest warmth of her brown eyes, and she melts. For god’s sake, the three best dancers in this school are standing in front of Harry, staring down at her, seriously considering her offer to help, and that, like—well, it does something for Harry for several reasons. Because she only got moved up to the most advanced class a few months ago, and the general consensus is that it’s only due to her age (at seventeen, she was the oldest in her prior class by…a lot), rather than to her talent. Because she always thought that the best dancers were the bitchiest dancers (that’s how it always is in the movies, anyway). Because she was offered a pretty big _Nutcracker_ solo as a fluke, which is the kind of thing that makes one wildly unpopular. Because she’s gay, and Liam and Veronica are really hot, and Louis is, like, a perfect specimen of humanity._ _

__But regardless of how she got here, she should probably focus on what Liam’s telling her instead of comparing the chest sizes of the three girls leaning over her. She isn’t sure if she should feel bad about where her thoughts are straying, but she can’t help it. Veronica’s completely flat-chested (though it’s hard to tell with her sternum covered in black lace). Liam’s the solid kind of busty that comes with strength training; with her broad shoulders, she often reminds Harry of one of those scary pubescent Olympic gymnasts, all power and muscle. Louis’s chest is… well, it’s perfect. There’s, like, cleavage at the pinched front of her blue leotard, and it looks like a very nice place to rest one’s head or bury one’s face and never breathe anything but skin and sweat ever again._ _

__Still holding onto the top barre for leverage in her aimless squirming, Harry (unintentionally but not unconsciously) pushes her own chest out. She’s top-heavy—like, they aren’t _enormous_ , but they move around a lot when she’s doing jumping combinations, and she doesn’t have Louis’s low centre of gravity to offset it, so she often veers to one side or the other. Maybe Louis likes boobs._ _

__“We can work on your Snow Queen variation, too,” Louis’s voice breaks through the ringing sound in Harry’s ears (the ringing sound being Liam’s no doubt important explanation)._ _

__Harry has no idea what she’s agreeing to, but she thinks it has something to do with rehearsing after class is dismissed, with Liam and _with Louis_ , so she says, “Okay, I’ll do it...on one condition.”_ _

__Liam and Veronica make a face like they can’t tell if Harry has a very sophisticated sense of humour, or if her sense of humour is simply weird as fuck. Louis makes a face like she thinks Harry’s sense of humour _is_ weird as fuck, but she thinks Harry’s funny, so it’s fine. “Alright, what is it?” Louis smirks in an angelic yet still somehow earthy voice._ _

__Harry wriggles back and forth on her numb tailbone, wrinkling her nose in discomfort at the pins and needles prickling up and down her legs. “Can someone help me up, please?” It feels thrilling to ask for such a thing, to request to have one of these girls’ hands (hopefully Louis’s) on her._ _

__Liam’s the first to bend over and wrap an arm around her back to pull her up. Louis just laughs for a second, which Harry thinks might feel just as good as her hands, but then she steps forward and grabs Harry’s other arm. Harry had just gotten her feet under her, but they slip at the cool touch of Louis’s strong grip. And she’s so _close_ ; if Harry turns her head, Louis’s sweaty neck will be _right there_ , in licking distance. She feels dizzy. Veronica takes her by the hand, which feels more like a hand-shaking gesture than any actual assistance in pulling her upright, but Harry’s standing in the end, regardless. With three girls’ hands on her, with Louis standing right by her side._ _

__Today’s going to be a good day. Harry can tell. Maybe it will even be the End of her Era of Awkwardness._ _

__Harry’s head has been swimming since the day she got pity-promoted to the advanced ballet class. She was perfectly happy and well-balanced in the intermediate class, surrounded by a gaggle of thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds who were far too young to give her any confused feelings. She was comfortably pining after the unattainable, staying late to watch Louis warm up and do _pliés_ in her layers of cut-off sweats, really only having to share space with Louis and her friends backstage during dress rehearsals and performances._ _

__Then suddenly she was thrust into spending five evenings and one morning a week with girls in her actual age group, with leotards and tights clinging to their very real, very college-aged curves. She has spent years admiring and idolizing most of these girls (Liam’s dedication is legendary among the younger students; Niall’s knee injury and subsequent recovery is the most dramatic and talked-about event in Harry’s time in this dance academy; Perrie’s attendance at the prestigious School of American Ballet’s summer-intensive program makes her envied by most of the students; Veronica’s high arches and narrow feet are the reason every girl in the intermediate class hates herself when she looks at her own feet in the mirror), and now here she is, on the first day of the fall term, tying pointe-shoe ribbons in the company of Leigh-Anne, who can do, like, thirty _foutté_ turns in a row, close enough to smell the sweaty, melted-glue stink of her shoes._ _

__So far, all the girls in the advanced class have been friendly enough toward Harry. They smile at her when she walks into the room, say goodbye when she leaves, ask to borrow her stitch kit when their ribbons tear off. A few of them even offered congratulations when Paula put up the casting list. But Harry ends up shutting down anything beyond that (compliments, offers of plasters for her bleeding toes, inquiries as to who she favours on _X Factor_ ), either because of her offbeat sense of humour, which takes a while for people to “get,” or because of her own insecurity. It’s just...she looks at these girls _differently_ than they look at her, and she doesn’t know if that’s okay. In this class, she’s actually _encouraged_ to examine every detail of how the other girls move, to observe their strengths and weaknesses and apply what she sees to her own technique. And it’s, like, normal for other girls to tell Louis how great her bum is (“great” is an understatement; Harry would give a more thorough compliment), but only if they’re saying how jealous they are or if they’re using its greatness to put themselves down. It’s probably… _not_ fine to get turned on by that bum, by watching Louis bend in half to touch the floor. There’s probably a pretty solid line separating the _fine_ things from the _not fine_ things, somewhere, but Harry doesn’t know where it is, which makes her less than secure in her navigation of this particular social minefield._ _

__It’s not even that she cares if the class knows that she’s a lesbian. She wears a rainbow pin on her dance bag every day, and she wears plaid shirts over her leotards. Like, _lesbian_ plaid, even. She’d prefer people to know, but she doesn’t want to make her situation any more awkward than it already is. She doesn’t want to fuck up and make someone feel uncomfortable or objectified. She doesn’t want to trade compliments because her reply to, “Your makeup looks pretty today,” will inevitably be something like, “Your face is so perfectly formed, yet you spend a hundred hours a day exfoliating and plucking and painting, and I hope you do it for _yourself_ because no boy is worth that effort...boys are stupid, and you’re a goddess,” which is how she feels about every girl in her class._ _

__But the End of her Era of Awkwardness is ending. It must be, because after rehearsal, she finds herself sitting on the curb outside the studio with Niall, Veronica, Liam, and Louis, eating sandwiches that were packed by Liam’s mum, who obviously anticipated Liam needing more fuel for extra workouts. Harry’s mum didn’t know about the extra rehearsals, obviously, so when she rolls in to pick Harry up, Harry dashes to open the passenger-side door and send her back home before she can say or do anything embarrassing. As she walks back to the group, wiping her hands awkwardly on the sides of her thigh-high legwarmers, she hopes nothing about the interaction made it obvious to her classmates that her previous plans for the day had been to spend time with her best friend, who also happens to be her mum._ _

__“You got permission to stay?” Niall asks, gesturing with one gangly arm and the crust of a ham sandwich. Harry forces herself to not stop in her tracks. So much for the interaction going unnoticed. Nodding, she reclaims her seat along with her sandwich._ _

__“Sick,” Veronica says, shooting a strange and rather obvious look at Louis, who appears to be focused intently on her own sandwich. Harry watches Louis chew for a minute, her cheekbones incredibly sharp, her jaw so strong._ _

__Liam’s sitting between Louis and Harry, though, so when she starts speaking, it’s quite loud, jostling Harry out of her reverie. “We thought you didn’t actually want to hang out with us.”_ _

__Harry swallows and decides that she’s fully committing to this thing that’s apparently happening today, the thing where she just verbalizes the weird shit that comes out of her brain and is rewarded by getting to spend time with and be touched by cute girls. “Was it the hateful glares? Or the death threats?”_ _

__“What? No,” Liam reassures her warmly, as if Harry were seeking reassurance rather than attempting to make a joke._ _

__Niall shakes her bleach-blonde hair free from its bun, making the air smell like conditioner. “It’s just that, you know, you always leave right after class, and, like…,” she rambles, trying to clarify her point as Harry takes a huge bite of her sandwich._ _

__Liam stiffly, awkwardly, knocks the side of her knee against Harry’s, and Harry might not know how to do casual, playful interactions with girls, but she’s pretty sure that Liam isn’t doing it right either. “You just seem so dedicated to the _art of ballet_...we figured you didn’t want to talk to us because we’d just be distracting you.”_ _

__Harry nearly spits out her food, coughing grossly as she chokes out, “What? Me??!” She catches Louis’s eye for a second, a spark of blue, but then Louis looks back down at her own food, chuckling silently and shaking her head._ _

__“You’re so intense in class,” murmurs Veronica, who’s easily the most intense person in the school. “You dance like dancing is crying,” she adds, which just proves Harry’s point because _who says fucking poetic shit like that?_ Apparently people like Veronica, who can’t stay on the beat to save her life but who brings the house down with her lyricism and emotional interpretation of every _adagio_. Seriously, the _arabesques_ that she pulls in her (dubiously consensual) Arabian Coffee solo are heartbreaking, breathing like they have lives of their own._ _

__“Ha, ha,” Harry laughs, without really laughing. This is a funny joke, where they…make fun of Harry by comparing her cutting out after class to Liam’s dedication and Veronica’s intensity? That must be it, but it seems like a friendly sort of teasing, at least, prompting her to joke, “You should see me cry.” Even Harry doesn’t know what she means by that._ _

__“Bet it’s a thing of beauty,” Louis says before taking another bite and smirking up at Harry as she chews. Harry’s heart stops. Comments like this are why she thinks that Louis might be a little bit gay, but to have her say one of those things directly to Harry? All she registers is a cheeky compliment directed at _her_ and Louis’s pretty blue eyes flickering to hers for a few seconds._ _

__But Louis looks down when Veronica starts snickering through her nose, and then Niall kind of collapses with her face on Louis’s shoulder, like she’s fighting back laughter. Instead of pondering this rather strange reaction, Harry wonders instead what it feels like to bury one’s face in Louis’s shoulder._ _

__“Between combos, you’re always stretching or staring off into the distance, like you’re recovering from pouring your whole heart into a _rond de jambe_ ,” Liam comments, bringing the discussion back around to Harry’s “dedication.” And, well, that does sound kind of like Harry, except for the part where she’s staring off into the distance instead of staring at Louis. Maybe they _are_ describing her. She does kind of have an…over-emoting problem._ _

__Harry clears her throat. “If I’m staring off into the distance, I’m usually just thinking about Mario Kart.”_ _

__Everyone laughs a little and more freely this time. Harry’s heart swells in relief; she’s said something that wasn’t the Wrong Thing to Say, brain filter malfunction or not._ _

__A car pulls up behind her, and Niall rolls down the previously rolled-up feet flaps of her convertible pink tights to cover her toes, skidding into her trainers as she stands up. “Hopefully, we’ll get to talk more later, Harry. It was nice! Vee, you still want that ride?”_ _

__Harry’s kind of busy processing Niall Horan saying that it was nice to talk to her, so she only catches some of the details of Veronica and Niall’s goodbyes._ _

__“Hey,” Veronica says softly, kicking the puffy nylon sole of Liam’s pointe-shoe-warmer-bootie thing. “Don’t stay _too_ late.” Harry watches them both closely, trying to gather any additional gay vs. straight girl clues. Veronica glares at Liam significantly until she makes eye contact, but then Liam looks kind of like she doesn’t know what Veronica’s talking about, prompting Veronica’s black eyebrows to arch farther up her forehead. She puts her hands on her hips, where the fancy black lace meets the slouchy gray joggers she pulled on after class. “Let Louis get some time with the Ice Queen, too,” she adds pointedly._ _

__“Snow Queen,” Harry automatically corrects._ _

__Veronica and Liam’s heads both pivot to her. “Right,” Veronica answers with a mysterious smile. “Snow Queen.”_ _

__A sharp hand appears out of nowhere to smack Veronica’s bum right where she stands. Harry’s stomach drops to her crotch when she realizes it’s Louis’s, her blue eyes glittering darkly under her eyelashes as she glares up at Veronica, her jaw set. Harry would probably cream the crotch-patch of her pink tights if she was in Veronica’s position. Holy shit._ _

__Veronica climbs into Niall’s mum’s car before Harry finds the brain cells to wonder what just happened. She has just enough time to think, _What was that warning slap about?_ before Liam interrupts her by gathering everyone’s rubbish and balling it up into a noisy roll of plastic. “Let’s get started before we cool down too much,” she announces, marching through the studio door in a chorus of rustling from her puffy warmer-booties and her plastic, heat-trapping shorts. With Liam gone, there’s just Harry and Louis._ _

__Louis’s fringe cascades over her face as she tilts her head, giving Harry a warm smile. (It’s the same smile she gave Harry the first day they stood together at the barre, when Louis whispered, “I hope you like suffering...Paula can be a bit tyrannical,” to which Harry had replied, “I’m just here to dance,” which was intended as a tongue-in-cheek declaration of indifference but came out in her perpetually ambiguous, dry tone, and—yes, okay, in retrospect, Harry can actually totally see how the things she’s said would lead Louis and her friends to think she’s a stuck-up bitch.) Neither of them stands up immediately; Harry isn’t sure why._ _

__“You should’ve got Sugar Plum,” Harry blurts out. She’s an idiot. There’s probably a delicate balance of casting politics between Louis and her friends, and here she is, telling Louis that she should have gotten Liam’s starring role._ _

__Louis looks taken aback, but the smile doesn’t disappear completely. Her brows pinch together as she says, “Thanks… I know I should’ve.” Her eyes travel over Harry’s face, studying her. Harry tries not to think about how sitting alone with Louis is the start to most of her sex fantasies because surely that would show on her face. She’s pretty sure it’s showing on her face. “And Liam knows it, too,” Louis adds with a laugh. “S’why she’s asked me to show her how to do it right.”_ _

__“I thought about quitting when I started sixth form,” Harry’s stupid voice spills. “Your Sugar Plum two years ago was what made me want to keep dancing. You just...it was like your feet never touched the ground.” Louis’s eyes are crinkling, her tight-lipped smile taking over her whole face, and it’s all the encouragement Harry’s stupid voice needs. “You just...commanded the whole stage with such ease, the whole Kingdom of _Sweets_ , and I’d never seen it done flirty and sexy before.”_ _

__Louis’s head bobs forward in a silent laugh. Harry puts her hand over her own mouth to make herself stop talking. “Flirty and sexy?” Louis asks, her voice like wind chimes. She narrows her eyes at Harry like she’s caught her sharing secrets, which she totally has. “Paula said I’m too lazy and disrespectful to deserve big roles, but now I’m wondering if those were euphemisms.”_ _

__“Oh, no, you’re lazy and disrespectful as well,” Harry _removes her hand from her mouth to say_. _ _

__“Oh, good,” Louis laughs loudly, ducking her head down and fluffing up her hair. There’s red on her cheeks, and it’s not just the November chill._ _

__“I mean....,” Harry starts, nervously sending her hands up into her own hair, unpinning the pathetically small swirl of her bun. “It’s…good, it’s, like, erm…,” _hot, compelling, sexy_ , “…attractive? It’s, like, you’re confident.”_ _

__With her eyes closed, she sticks all the pins between her lips so that she can’t physically talk again. God, she is so much more suave in her sex fantasies about sitting alone with Louis._ _

__When she opens her eyes, Louis’s studying her face again. “You think I’m confident?” she asks. There’s no inflection in her voice, so Harry can’t tell if it’s a joke because, like, duh, yes, Louis’s confident._ _

__She ends up just nodding, biting down on her hair pins._ _

__Louis grins, the flash of white making Harry’s heart stop _again_ because, god, she’s so beautiful. She feels her eyes go wide. “I had no idea you felt that way about my dancing.” Louis reaches up and grabs the ends of the pins sticking out of Harry’s mouth, pulling them out with a _plop_ , like a doctor taking a child’s temperature. (Harry very suddenly has a fever. She would let Louis do whatever she wants to her mouth: take stuff out, put stuff in, _whatever_. It’s a very big mouth, so there are plenty of options.)_ _

__Louis rises from her squat, the great planes of muscle in her thighs and glutes shimmering in her nonuniform black tights that she wears _over_ her leotard instead of under. Harry could probably fit her mouth over the curve of one whole arse cheek, if Louis would let her try. “I guess I should go show Liam how it’s done, then.”_ _

__It takes a minute to get her eyes to travel up Louis’s solid abs, curvy chest, defined biceps, and muscular shoulders, and it’s only when she gets to her gorgeously blushing face that she realizes Louis’s waiting for her to stand up, too._ _

__They make their way into the studio, where Liam’s already practicing the opening intricate footwork of the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” “That’d be great, Liam, _if you were a robot_!” Louis shouts, exasperated and brash. Harry laughs, glad to see the funny-mean side of Louis that she’s observed for years up close and in person. She didn’t even realize how absent the funny-mean side of Louis was when they were outside. Maybe Louis only takes that tone with her friends._ _

__Since it seems like they’ll be working on the solo “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” before getting to the Sugar Plum and Nutcracker Prince’s _pas de deux_ , Harry puts on her favourite slouchy, sage-coloured knit coverall, layering it over her purple knit thigh-highs _and_ her pink knit sweater. (Harry’s Christmas wish list is ninety percent knitwear.) She slides down into a centre-splits stretch, tucked away in the downstage-left corner by the mirror._ _

__She has a great view of Louis and Liam working just upstage of her. They’re really just covering the same first four bars of choreography over and over again, so they aren’t moving much. Maybe Harry’s blocking their view of their own reflections, but she isn’t moving until she’s asked. She likes how Louis, in search of her own reflection, keeps accidentally looking directly at _her_. Like, when Louis looks elegantly down, following the line of her rounded arm and her pointed foot, and then coyly looks up again at an angle as she turns in _plié_ , it’s Harry that her eyes fall on. The first time, her eyes flicker away again immediately, settling somewhere higher. But by the eighth time or so, she throws in a little smile that feels like it’s directed right at Harry. And a few times after that, she’s making silly faces whenever their eyes meet. Harry falls forward with her elbows on the floor between her spread legs so that she can prop her chin on her hands and smile back. The burn in her inner thighs is kind of a nice addition to the butterflies in her stomach._ _

__Liam finally declares that she’s ready to try the four-bar section on her own (after doing it a dozen times behind Louis, copying every little arm flourish and head tilt, the pieces of the dance that give it character). Louis steps back to watch with her arms crossed and all her weight leaning on one hip. Harry drags her eyes away from Louis’s suddenly fully visible arse and watches Liam dance, and…she has to fight the urge to wince. Liam’s an amazing dancer, she really is. But she really shines best in a _grand allegro_ type of dance, something big and bold, with sweeping jumps and ambitious _piqués_ , where the audience’s eyes are too drawn in by the grand gestures to look for the gentle nuances, where her perfectionist tendencies come across as gusto instead of as…trying too hard. Personally, Harry would have cast Liam as Spanish Chocolate alongside Louis, but Harry would also personally cast Louis in every single role possible._ _

__Three more times, Liam tries the choreography to the sound of Louis’s clapping. Her head tilts in the proper direction with each step, but it’s stilted, awkward because she’s tilting in the direction she memorized as proper, rather than in the direction that flows naturally with the feeling of the movement._ _

__“Harry, c’mere,” Louis’s voice calls, shocking Harry into sitting upright. She isn’t looking at Harry, but that doesn’t keep Harry from hustling upstage to get to her. “Watch Harry do it.”_ _

__“Watch me do what?!” Harry asks, her voice a bit high in panic at the prospect of being put on the spot to do one of the most famous ballet solos of all time. Liam looks over at her enthusiastically, not at all like a prima ballerina who has just been instructed to take cues from a lowly upstart corps member (the way she would no doubt look at Harry if life were a movie)._ _

__Slowly, Louis pivots on her heel to turn to Harry with a smile on her face. “Surely, you’ve seen it enough times...you know the steps.”_ _

__Harry swallows, nodding. “I know all the dances,” which is the understatement of the year. She has obsessively watched the DVD recordings of their school’s _Nutcracker_ performances every year since she joined at the age of twelve. In her living room, she has mirrored Louis’s Snow Queen from 2006, copied her Music Box Dancer from 2007, and passively watched in jaw-dropping awe of Louis’s thighs her highly aerobic Russian dance from that same year. She has studied in close detail the differences between Louis’s Sugar Plum Fairies in 2009 and 2010, and she’s a bit worried how obvious it’ll be if she does this dance in front of Louis right now._ _

__Louis pulls Liam away by the long sleeve of her classic leotard, giving Harry the floor with the wave of an arm. “Just as much as you feel like, if you don’t mind. Just to give us an idea.”_ _

__Harry’s skin is prickling under her three layers of knitwear. She’s been sitting in a stretch for so long that her legs feel like noodles and her feet have long gone cold in the boxy prison of her pointe shoes. _Louis_ and _Liam_ are watching her._ _

__But just like the sun burning through an overcast sky, so emerges Harry’s inner four-year-old ham, the one who demanded to play Mary in the Christmas play. (She was a very emotive Mary. There were both tears and dimples.)_ _

__Harry launches right into the _piqués_ that bring the Sugar Plum Fairy out to centre stage and then sweeps into the sequence that Liam has been diligently repeating. She goes by the music in her head, stretching out some movements and using others for momentum. She feels her audience like a kind of heat, and it makes her smile, but she doesn’t look to them for approval, focusing instead on following her lines all the way through from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes._ _

__She avoids looking at them completely, until Louis starts talking. “See how naturally her head follows her hand?”_ _

__Harry takes the choreography’s next opportunity to glance at her audience over the curve of her elbow. Louis’s eyes are on her! Her heart beats double-time, but she keeps on dancing. She’ll dance until someone tells her to stop. “Harry kind of forgets what her arms are doing sometimes,” Louis continues, “so they aren’t always making a shape, exactly, but her head always follows their movement because she dances by _feeling_.”_ _

__There’s a matter-of-fact quality to Louis’s voice that makes Harry feel like an object under a microscope, but there isn’t a trace of cruelty in her criticism. It’s altogether unlike any other instructor that Harry has had berating her. In fact, it makes her kind of hot. The next time she squeezes her thighs together in a _bourrée_ , she gasps at the pressure on the swelling between them._ _

__“And see, she isn’t quite on the beat all the time, but not like Vee, where she just gets totally lost in it. Harry, like, stretches out the _pliés_ and uses the faster steps to catch up, so it’s, like, dynamic,” Louis explains, which make it sound an awful lot like…_ _

__“You’ve watched me dance?” Harry gasps in wonder on her next _piqué attitude_ , looking over her shoulder to see smiling blue eyes. Harry has spent a solid few years dreaming about having Louis’s eyes on her, and to have it confirmed that she’s had that honour _without knowing it_ over the past few weeks makes her skin break out in goosepimples. Her overstretched limbs pull her off her centre, and she falls into a brisk _pas de basque_. Louis has watched her dance enough to describe her style, and Harry didn’t even know she had a style, really, aside from the over-emoting thing (which has been a signature problem ever since the Virgin Mary wouldn’t stop crying and clutching at Gabriel’s white robe, preventing him from leaving the stage). Louis _likes_ things about her dancing. Louis is _watching her right now_._ _

__Harry makes the most of the next _piqué attitude_ , bringing her leg up high behind her and therefore tilting forward to offer up a clear view of her sternum, tits, and charming (cheesy) smile._ _

__Louis shakes her head in laughter, looking down at her own crossed arms. “We can only watch you dance if you’re actually dancing,” she chides, a bitten smile dimpling her cheek._ _

__Harry senses that Louis will only look at her again if she stops acknowledging her audience and resumes adhering to some kind of rhythm, so she goes on for a few bars with her gaze following her fingertips instead of getting fixed somewhere it’s not supposed to be._ _

__But she can’t help herself. Now that she knows Louis is/has been watching her, she wants to _experience_ it. She looks under the high curve of her arm to smile again at Louis, who rewards her (probably unintentionally) with another charmed snicker. After a turn, she gets her eyes right back on Louis’s, which legitimately _twinkle_ in response. Harry’s breath is shallow, but she can’t stop grinning. This is the greatest thing ever, Louis watching her dance!_ _

__“See how she lets the emotion give shape to the dance, rather than letting the dance give shape to the emotion,” Louis tells Liam, leaning closer into her space but not to lower her voice, which is even louder now than it was a moment ago. Harry preens a little, getting into a preparation position for the final turn sequence. “Even if that emotion is shameless exhibitionism.”_ _

__Harry gasps into the first turn but keeps herself from tumbling out of it. Louis insulting her warmly is probably the hottest thing to ever happen to her, and Harry has had _sex_ AND been to a Rihanna concert._ _

__She manages the entire sequence, despite the fact that every _chainé_ turn squeezes her thighs so firmly together that she can’t forget about the throbbing in her junk, which is hugged traitorously tightly by the crotch of her leotard. She holds the final pose, panting and trying to steady her dizzy, spinning head in anything other than the grounding squeeze of her thighs._ _

__From somewhere across the spinning room, Liam comments, “She did _croissé_ arms instead of _effacé_ on the third—”_ _

__“Oh, for chrissakes, Liam,” Louis groans, sounding defeated. Harry’s blood surges another round as she thinks, _I’ve done it right...Louis had only praise and_ warm _insults for me, nothing like the impatience she has for Liam_. Then she shakes her head and reminds herself how ridiculous she’s being. She’s just done the entire “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” in an oversized green coverall. Still dizzy, she hobbles over toward the mirror, working on shrugging out of the offending garment. She’s a little embarrassed that she’d been flirting—yes, that is, in retrospect, what she was definitely doing—in the least flattering (but coziest) item in her entire wardrobe._ _

__“Is that all you got out of this?” Louis asks Liam. Harry looks up briefly to ascertain that the two girls are talking to each other, as if Harry vanished from thin air as soon as the dance ended. She drops down into another side split, the adrenaline quickly fading from her body. During her dance, she didn’t realize that she was taking Louis’s attention to mean more than it did; now, without the rush of having an audience, she has enough perspective to notice how she was conflating Louis watching her _dancing_ with Louis watching _her_._ _

__“No, it’s not,” Liam insists._ _

__“Let’s see, then.”_ _

__Liam gets back to the upstage corner and starts the dance over. Even in her puffy, plastic, knee-length shorts, she looks elegant and clean. She’s so much better than Harry is, prompting Harry to feel guilty for having felt worthy of being studied by such an accomplished dancer._ _

__“Ack, you do that _developé_ so much better.” With a start, Harry realizes that Louis’s now standing right behind her. And then Louis crouches _down_ , squatting with her knees jutting out over Harry’s extended right leg._ _

__“Do I?” Harry never developed that part of the brain that says it isn’t _cool_ to seek approval._ _

__Louis looks over at her then but doesn’t lose her balance, her thighs so fucking sturdy. Harry draws her eyes up to Louis’s again._ _

__“Yeah, you do.” Louis’s voice is soft and light, not too serious. “Liam’s got long legs, but she uses them for poses...you can’t see the energy pulling them higher.” Harry’s heart flutters—from guilt? nervousness? feeling special that Louis’s letting her in on this quiet, private criticism of her friend? “You, however,” Louis goes on, tilting her head so that she’s looking sideways at Harry, who’s already craning her neck all the way to the right to maintain eye contact. “You make the line look like it’s constantly extending.”_ _

__Yes, Harry definitely feels special. But before saying something like, _don’t stop, what else?_ , she pauses to recognize that this might be some kind of reciprocal compliment, an exchange for when Harry told her outside that she should have been the Sugar Plum Fairy again. She should appreciate Louis’s sweet, condescending compliments for what they are (recognition from a more experienced dancer) instead of begging for more attention (from a fit, older girl.)_ _

__Louis looks down, and Harry thinks that she may have made her uncomfortable by staring too intently, but then she adds, “Not to mention, your legs go on for days and days,” as her gaze tracks the length of Harry’s legwarmers, from her thighs down to her feet. Harry’s skin comes to life under Louis’s eyes, which is good because her lungs and heart aren’t doing _shit_ ; Louis just said something _flirty_ to her. Like, the way she said Harry’s legs were long is _so different_ from how she said Liam’s legs were long. Plus, the appreciative once-over! Holy shit._ _

__“I do order the extra large-sized tights,” Harry responds. As the words come out of her mouth, she wonders how on earth someone with as little game as she possesses has managed to have two girlfriends. One-and-a-half girlfriends. Really, one Internet girlfriend she met up with three times and one mutually curious friend in year nine. God, no wonder she’s got so little game._ _

__Louis laughs as she turns back to watch Liam. Miraculously, she seems charmed. “Is that so?”_ _

__“I did the maths once,” Harry rambles on. Louis was checking her out thirty seconds ago, and now she’s talking about maths. Fantastic. “Of, like, the surface areas. Of tights. The different sizes. Like, how large really only gives more leg length, but the waistband isn’t much bigger than the extra small, so, like, all dance wear is designed to make girls feel fat. The sizes are, I mean. They should be called short-skinny and long-skinny.”_ _

__“They should just make bigger tights,” Louis counters, shutting Harry up by meeting her eyes again and therefore stealing her breath. “You’re a bit political, aren’t you?”_ _

__Harry shrinks back an inch. She doesn’t usually like being called political, mostly because it implies that being a girl with an opinion and thinking that people deserve equal rights is somehow inherently political. The people who usually call her that don’t look like Louis, though. Louis was checking her legs out a minute ago. Louis probably means something different by it. “Kind of goes with the territory,” Harry mumbles._ _

__Liam starts the middle section of the dance over again as Louis asks Harry, “What territory?”_ _

__She seems distracted, more focused on Liam’s dancing than on what Harry’s saying, which is what gives Harry the courage to say it. Well, that and the fact that she really wants Louis to know. Just in case. “Being gay,” she shrugs._ _

__If any reaction were visible on Louis’s face, Harry would have seen it. She’s watching so closely for a sign, but not a single muscle on Louis’s face flickers. It’s the kind of blank expression that can _only_ be schooled, Harry’s sure of it. Louis’s schooling her expression in response to Harry’s gayness. Is that good news? She thinks it’s good news. It’s probably good news._ _

__“That looks like four different steps, and it should look like one,” Louis replies, mystifyingly. It takes several seconds of staring at her profile for Harry to realize that Louis isn’t talking to her. Not only is Louis schooling her expression, she’s pretending not to hear Harry. That’s very good news indeed._ _

__Harry clears her throat, suddenly feeling quite bold. She scoots her hips further forward until they’re on the same plane as her feet. There’s a compulsive need that all dancers share to stretch in front of other dancers. Harry doesn’t understand it, but she falls victim to it all the same, even though she rarely feels a conscious competitive urge to show off her flexibility._ _

__Finally, Louis turns to look at her. “What was that?” she asks, nonchalantly, _schooled_._ _

__“I’m gay,” Harry repeats, pointing and flexing her toes alternately, hoping that maybe the movement will draw Louis’s eyes down to her legs again._ _

__“I know,” Louis says mildly, with an amused, condescending smile on her face. It’s kind of infuriating, makes Harry want to do something crazy that will force Louis to see just how gay she is._ _

__In addition to the dancers’ stretching compulsion, Harry also suffers from the awkward tendency to do weird things when flirting. Still twisting her head to look over her shoulder at Louis, she rolls forward through her hips until her belly hits the floor and she has to hold herself up on her forearms. “And single.”_ _

__Still in her low crouch, Louis steps out of the way of Harry’s sliding leg. “So what you’re saying is,” she starts, looking decidedly at Harry’s face and not at the way her thighs are spread out and open, pressing into the floor, “that you’re political because you’re single.”_ _

__Harry’s lower lip drops. She really didn’t see that one coming. Louis’s gaze falls to her mouth before it tears away completely because stupid Liam is asking her to demonstrate something. As she straightens up and saunters over to Liam’s side, Harry admires the view. She deserves to, if Louis gets to _pretend_ to be totally unaffected by Harry coming out _and_ on to her._ _

__She doesn’t get to admire the view for long, though. Louis beckons her over to start rehearsing the _pas de deux_ , since she’s not getting anywhere coaching Liam solo._ _

__Harry stands behind Liam, preparing to mark the Nutcracker Prince’s steps. She isn’t all that much taller than Liam, and she definitely isn’t strong enough to lift her off the ground, but she can manage some of the partnering moves. It’s mostly walking, anyway._ _

__“You gonna leave those on?” Louis asks, gesturing down to Harry’s pointe shoes. Harry hadn’t actually considered that she wouldn’t need them for strutting around like a prince. Part of her wants to cower under Louis’s amused smirk and sheepishly remove her shoes, but another part of her wants to prove that she can be a Fairy’s Prince _and_ wear pointe shoes at the same time._ _

__“Why? Do they threaten your masculinity?” Harry teases back, blinking slowly at Louis, hopefully conveying _please knock me to the ground and sit on me and never let me up_._ _

__But Louis doesn’t knock her to the ground. She doesn’t even give Harry the confirmation that she’s desperately grabbing for. Doesn’t say, _I can make a girl come on my fingers in under sixty seconds...is that masculine enough for you?_ , which is the kind of thing that Louis says in Harry’s fantasies. And she totally seems like the kind of girl who could make another girl come on her fingers in under sixty seconds, if she wanted to. “I don’t believe in masculinity,” is what Louis says instead, walking off toward the dance bags with her face down, unreadable. On one hand, it could be a really gay thing to say, like, if Louis only cares about girls (like Harry does), but on the other, it could be a really not-gay thing to say, too, like, if Louis doesn’t think that girls can be masculine. Yikes._ _

__“Go on, get started...m’just taking me shoes off,” Louis shouts, her voice echoing off the wall she’s facing._ _

__Still standing behind, Harry sets one hand on Liam’s waist and holds out the other for Liam to lightly drop her fingers into. They take a few clumsy steps like that, just getting used to each other. Liam asks permission first and then steps out into a _piqué arabesque_ , trusting Harry to follow, which then turns into a _foutté_ , Harry still keeping close behind her. The thing about any classical _pas de deux_ is that, aside from lifts, the man is there mostly for show. It’s not like he’s actually holding the female dancer up; it’s just an illusion. So Harry mostly follows Liam around as she does her stuff, her hands offering support that Liam’s skilled technique doesn’t really require._ _

__Without the sound of her pointe shoes announcing her approach, Louis sneaks up on Harry so that she nearly yanks Liam out of her promenade turn. “Liam, you aren’t _using_ her.”_ _

__Harry swallows down the drool in her mouth. She would very much like to be used by Louis._ _

__“It looks like you’re holding back on everything,” says Louis, who seems like the kind of girl who _wouldn’t_ hold back on _anything_. Except, apparently, confirmation of her gayness. Harry dares to look over her shoulder at Louis and finds her bare from the ankle down, the impressions of her pointe-shoe elastics and ribbons leaving red marks on the skin just below the hem of her footless black tights. On top of those, she has put on low-slung pyjama bottoms, rolled up into a cuff beneath the knee. Plaid pyjama bottoms but not necessarily lesbian plaid. She looks cozy and sexy at the same time._ _

__Liam’s defending herself with words like _control_ and _core_ and _balance_ , and Louis’s responding with, “That’s all fine if you can make it _not_ look like shit. Give it a little romance, yeah?”_ _

__Harry’s brain gets stuck on the word _romance_ as Louis steps in front of her. She’s still struck dumb as Louis grabs both of her limp hands, placing one on her hip. Louis lifts a leg behind her in a high _arabesque_ , wrapping Harry’s other (still limp) hand around the inside of her thigh. The fabric of her pyjama bottoms shifts under Harry’s palm._ _

__A gust of breath finally comes out from Harry’s chest, sounding like a strangled moan. She feels like someone has just placed the world’s most valuable treasure in her hands. She’s touching Louis, she’s holding Louis up by touching her waist and her thigh! There’s so much sensory information to process that it takes Harry several moments to fully inhabit her body again. It’s like swimming up from a deep dive; if she comes back too quickly, she’d probably die from the too-immediate pressure of Louis’s _everything_ in her hands._ _

__Harry takes a tentative step closer, her hips lining up just behind Louis’s left side. Her hands squeeze on their own, and she nearly dies at the sensation of Louis’s hard, supple muscles giving way to the pressure of her palms._ _

__It seems like minutes have passed when Harry can process sounds again, but it can’t have been that long because nobody’s looking at her oddly, the way they’d probably look at her if she had just been drooling and squeezing Louis’s thigh for five minutes._ _

__“This is what you were doing,” Louis admonishes, lifting as she says it, bringing her thigh higher and her torso upright, _away_ from Harry’s palms. Driven by a frantic feeling of loss, Harry fits her hands gently along the same planes as before, but it feels different. “And this is what I want you to do,” her instructions overwhelming Harry with joy as Louis’s thigh and waist fill up her hands again. It doesn’t feel like she’s holding Louis up; she can feel the muscles in Louis’s core holding her up, her thighs squeezing together for balance. But the flesh in her hand _breathes_ against Harry’s palms, squeezes into the spaces between her fingers. It feels like being used, being useful. It feels like dance. It feels like _sex_. Harry’s afraid to move._ _

__“Do you see the difference?” Louis asks, the ornate musculature of her back rippling right before Harry’s eyes. It’s good to have something visual to focus on, something to distract her from the fact that if she contracted her biceps just a tiny bit, she could draw Louis’s arse right up against her, right where she’s throbbing so hard that Louis would probably be able to feel it digging into her._ _

__She doesn’t think Louis would freak out. A straight and/or uninterested girl wouldn’t have been, like, _oh, you’re a lesbian, okay, here, let me put my upper inner thigh in your hand_. Without meaning to, Harry shifts her hand slightly higher. She’s pretty preoccupied with trying not to whimper at the slide of it, but she thinks she feels Louis’s breath hitch against her other palm._ _

__Instinctively, she looks up to try to catch Louis’s expression in their reflection._ _

__She can’t see their reflection, though, because Liam’s standing right in front of them, smiling an alarmingly large smile. “Harry?” she asks, in a voice that sounds like she’s holding back excitement. It’s disconcerting. Louis’s raised leg starts to lower, but Harry grips tightly, holding it up. Louis’s breath hitches again, she thinks._ _

__“Yes?” she answers cautiously._ _

__Liam puts her hands together in a little prayer position pressed to her lips. “Have you ever thought about auditioning for one of those TV talent shows?”_ _

__Louis’s leg drops decidedly out of Harry’s reach. “Really, Liam?” Louis sighs, rubbing across her face with one of her small hands._ _

__Harry’s hands buzz with emptiness, just like her brain. “Erm, what?”_ _

__There’s a loaded moment where Liam and Louis look at one another in some kind of unspoken battle. When Louis sighs again, she sounds defeated, but she’s smiling. “She means _Britain’s Got Talent, So You Think You Can Dance…_ That stuff. She’s dragged me to auditions two years in a row.”_ _

__“Veronica and Niall came this year, too!” Liam adds._ _

__Harry’s struck dumb in surprise. She always pictured Liam and Louis joining professional classical ballet companies, not auditioning for a Simon Cowell TV show. True, most professional dancers would be in a full-time arts program by Louis’s age instead of going to a public college on the less-nice side of town, but Harry thinks that Louis’s so good and is confident in her future as a professional that she doesn’t _need_ to follow the _normal_ career path._ _

__Louis’s hand is still on her face, sliding sheepishly up into her hair. Harry would like to kiss her sweat-shiny forehead. “It seems that Liam’s so impressed by your talent that she would like you to join our sorry crew.”_ _

__“Wait, what?” Harry asks, still thinking about how soft the skin of Louis’s forehead would be to kiss, how the ends of her fringe would tickle, that she hasn’t fully processed what’s happening here. She thinks she was just asked to join Louis, Liam, Veronica, and Niall at a dance audition, so she must not be listening well._ _

__Louis reaches out and grazes her fingers over Harry’s shoulder before pulling back, which doesn’t help Harry’s listening skills at all. She thinks she hears Louis say, “ _I_ told Liam that you’ll probably be placed in a company somewhere by the time auditions come round. Like, it’s obvious that you’ve got better things in your future than a dance competition show.”_ _

__“Obviously,” Liam acknowledges, as though they’ve had this discussion before. “But now that we’ve danced together…well, I thought I’d ask.” Then, strangest of all, Liam extends an arm and lays her hand solidly on Harry’s shoulder. Harry has to take a step to compensate for the added weight. “Please don’t be offended.”_ _

__Harry scrunches her eyes tightly, trying to make sense of it all. “But…wait, you think _I’m_ going to join a company?” She opens her eyes to see the other girls both nodding, with matching looks of confusion on their faces. They don’t have the right to be confused, in Harry’s opinion. The confusion is all hers. “But, Louis, you’re the most talented dancer at this school.”_ _

__She feels a pang of horror the moment that she says it—how could she just _say_ that, right in front of Liam? She hopes Liam doesn’t hate her, especially since Louis might hate her in solidarity. Miraculously, neither of them looks offended. Liam smiles at Louis, who looks down at her bare feet before smiling up at Harry. “I know, but _you’ve_ got the greatest potential. It’s different.”_ _

__Harry doesn’t understand how that’s different, but she has more pressing matters on her mind. “You—er, both of you—are going to join companies at the end of the year, yeah?”_ _

__Louis finally lowers her fidgeting hand to cross her arms in front of her waist daintily, laughing, “Please, I’m old and washed up...m’on my way to uni next year.”_ _

__This is devastating news to Harry, for some reason. Liam adds, “But she’s _going_ to be part of our group number for _Britain’s Got Talent_ , aren’t you, Lou?” It sounds more like a threat than a question._ _

__Louis’s lashes flutter as she rolls her eyes beneath her lids, and there’s an indent where she bites the inside of her cheek. “Of course,” she says, opening her eyes to throw Harry an ironic smile._ _

__Harry is living in an upturned world, now that Louis isn’t going to join the Royal Ballet and is, instead, going to university. “Which uni?” she asks, her mind doing quick calculations of how many years they could overlap if they went to the same place. Harry has never had any other plan than to go to university, but she never imagined Louis as part of her educational future. “What will you study?”_ _

__Louis laughs again as Liam drops her hand from Harry’s shoulder to answer. (Harry takes another step to compensate for the subtracted weight.) “Louis’s gonna study to become a dance instructor, so that she can open up her own studio, but not just _any_ studio,” Liam describes. Harry can’t be sure, because she hasn’t talked to Liam very much, but she thinks that her enthusiasm is at least half-sincere. “She’s going to _foster_ a _learning environment_ based on self-love, community, and encouragement, with _food-positivity_ , choreography written for _body …diversity_ , right?” Liam pauses briefly to check with Louis that she’s getting her apparent mission statement correct. Louis nods curtly. Harry’s insides are swimming. Could she just skip kissing Louis and marry her instead? “Basically the healthy alternative to most schools, the opposite of Paula—a place Louis would feel comfortable sending her little sisters.”_ _

__Truly, how could Louis be so wonderful? Harry stands, slack-jawed, contemplating this question. It doesn’t seem possible that what Louis wants to do with her awe-inspiring dance skills is to give little girls a safer place to grow up. Louis’s crystal blue eyes are looking searchingly into hers, which only makes Harry feel _more_ like marrying her._ _

__“That all sounds a bit… _political_ ,” Harry says, staring into Louis’s eyes until they shy away from her, only to return with a daring gleam to them._ _

__Before Louis can confirm whether she’s “single” or not, Liam tacks on, “It’s the kind of stuff that wins over audiences is what it is, which is why she’s going to lead us on _Britain’s Got Talent_ , so that she can add a major award to her list of credentials.”_ _

__Louis shakes her head dismissively yet fondly, adding, “I don’t know where I’m going yet.” After a moment, Harry realizes that it’s the answer to her first question, about which university Louis would be attending so that Harry can make sure she attends the same one._ _

__“I hope it’s somewhere nearby,” Harry says, her voice coming out deep and very much like she wants to marry Louis. The other girl’s pupils flash open wide for a second, and Harry feels just as turned on as she did when Louis put her upper inner thigh in her hand. She really, really thinks she might actually get to kiss the most perfect girl in the world, if she asked nicely._ _

__“Are you in, Harry?” Liam asks, interrupting yet another Moment with her obsession with dance. Harry can now recognize these moments that she and Louis have had as Moments. Real Moments. Harry couldn’t care less about dance._ _

__“‘Course,” she replies, thinking maybe she really _is_ in Louis’s league. Liam smiles genuinely, and Louis sucks on the insides of her cheeks, making her cheekbones look life-threateningly sharp. “Could we get back to, erm…,” Harry starts awkwardly, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down to squeeze them against her palm. With a significant look into Louis’s eyes, she finishes, “to the part where you put your thigh in my hand.” Pink crawls across Louis’s cheeks as she stares back. This is another Moment._ _

__After the Moment passes, Louis lifts her eyebrow into an arc as graceful as the rest of her is. “It’s called an _arabesque_ , Harry.”_ _

__Of course Harry knows what an _arabesque_ is called. Everyone learns that on the first day of beginning ballet. Louis’s just continuing to pretend that she isn’t affected by the things Harry says. Louis is—flirting. This is how Louis _flirts_._ _

__Louis _flirts_ with her for the next twenty minutes. She puts Harry’s hands on her. She puts her hands over Harry’s and adjusts their positioning on her body. She watches with crossed arms whenever Liam takes her place. She looks away with fluttering lashes when Harry has been staring in wonder at her for too long. She bends over to take off the pyjama bottoms that she only just put on a little while ago, her abs and the soft padding over them rolling up where her tights cut across her tummy. She teases Harry for having to hear instructions twice before they register in her brain. She uses Harry as a prop for so many positions, putting her feet, her underarm, then her crotch right in Harry’s face, and Harry can _smell_ her, smell the mouth-watering salt of her. Harry is slowly losing all coherent thought._ _

__Really, it’s getting so bad that she might have to sit down._ _

__Just as Harry’s about to excuse herself for a drink of water, Liam announces, “Ugh, that’s my dad outside.”_ _

__Harry holds fast to Louis’s hips, even though Louis lowers herself from her _retiré_ to stand with two feet flat on the ground. Louis could pull away if she wanted to, but she just lets her hips be cradled by Harry’s hands, lets the matching dips on either side of her spine be filled by Harry’s thumbs. “Mmmmngh,” Harry gurgles, without prompt._ _

__“Leave us the keys to the studio, yeah?” Louis asks._ _

__Out of the corner of her eye, Harry sees Liam packing her dance bag. There’s a clinking sound as she tosses the keys onto the floor. “Just, bring them back to me before class on Monday. Paula would be furious if she knew I was leaving them with _you_.”_ _

__“Would I ever do anything to jeopardize your goody-two-shoes reputation?” Louis asks cheekily. Harry really wants her own goody-two-shoes reputation ruined by Louis._ _

__Liam leaves in a rush, bent over to the side to compensate for the weight of her enormous, bursting dance bag. “Thanks, Lou,” she shouts over her shoulder._ _

__“Guess that just leaves us single lesbians,” Louis comments casually. Interesting, Harry thinks, watching the car outside roll away. That means Liam could be straight and single, straight and in a relationship, or a lesbian in a relationship because she and Veronica are an item. A very interesting, nonspecific comment from Louis._ _

__It takes ten whole seconds for the real, even more interesting meaning of that comment to strike her like a slap in the face. _Louis is single and a lesbian_. Harry literally gasps at the knowledge._ _

__Louis gradually spins in place, keeping her hips in the circle of Harry’s hands. She may have no other option because Harry may be gripping her very tightly. Harry suspects this is the case when Louis smirks down at the clutch of her fingers before looking up at Harry from under her fringe. Louis’s own hands are joined and fidgeting in the fairly small space between their bodies. Harry isn’t breathing, not at all. This feels like the moment she’s been waiting for her whole life. She can’t think what she’s done to deserve having Louis, a single lesbian, looking up at her, a single lesbian, possibly-hopefully- _probably_ about to kiss her._ _

__Louis doesn’t kiss her, though. She asks instead, “Did you still want to work on your Snow Queen variation?” Harry isn’t breathing at all, but she thinks it looks like Louis’s struggling with it, too. Her chest swells and falls in rapid succession, her voice quaking as she adds, “I could be your Snow King.”_ _

__Louis’s hands settle high on Harry’s waist, shocking her into an overdue exhale, the force of her breath blowing through the strands of Louis’s hair. There’s no way that Louis could escape smelling her breath right now. Whatever Harry’s breath smells like, Louis _knows it_ , an exciting, scary idea that makes Harry squeeze her thighs together unconsciously and nearly whimper at the pressure. Louis licks her lips. Harry mirrors the motion and points out, “We don’t do the version with a Snow King.”_ _

__At hearing this, Louis’s hands curl up and withdraw slightly, which is Very Bad, so in a desperate rush, Harry tacks on, “But you can be my Spanish Chocolate.”_ _

__Louis tilts her head thoughtfully. She appears to be considering Harry very carefully, as if Harry’s hard to read, as if Harry’s whole body isn’t painfully, obviously screaming, _Do whatever you want with me_. Louis clears her throat in an adorable little scrape, bites her lip, and then asks, “Does that mean you’d, er, like to taste me?”_ _

__“Yes,” Harry replies without hesitation, eager to make her stance on the situation perfectly clear. Whatever Louis means, truly _whatever_ , whichever part of her she’ll let Harry taste, the answer is yes. She’ll kiss Louis’s lips or clean up the sweat from her collarbones with her tongue or get on her knees to suck her through her tights, anything. Whatever Louis wants._ _

__But Louis…she isn’t telling Harry what she wants. She’s just standing there, sort of trembling in the rhythm of her shallow breaths, looking at Harry’s lips, and opening her mouth every few seconds as though she’s struggling to find the right words. Eventually, Louis stutters out, “Would you, like, er, after, like, rehearsing…”_ _

__And, no, Harry does _not_ want to wait until after rehearsing something she didn’t even really want to rehearse in the first place. Louis seems almost at a loss for words, and as surprising as it is to see the pinnacle of self-certainty acting _shy_ , Harry finds it far more endearing than disappointing. She wants so badly to kiss her. “Can I?” she asks boldly. She isn’t sure her question is clear in the context of their verbal conversation, but Louis _has_ to know what she means, she _has_ to know what Harry wants so desperately._ _

__A gentle huff of breath falls from Louis’s parted lips as she looks up at Harry. Almost in a whisper, she asks, “Can you what?”_ _

__But Harry can’t talk anymore, she just can’t. Louis’s mouth is just inches away, and Harry’s drawn in, closer and closer, dipping her head and tilting just enough to slot their lips together, and then—_ _

__The collision of their lips is pillow-soft, and if touch could have a flavour, then the softness of it tastes so, so sweet, the kind of sweet that makes your heart stop. Their lips pull apart, but stick slightly, as though they object to the separation. Harry agrees and fits her lips on Louis’s again, lower this time, and takes Louis’s shuddering breath into her own mouth._ _

__Then there’s _wet_ —Louis’s lip pushing between Harry’s lips, taking up space and filling Harry’s mouth with the warmth of her abrupt whimper. The heat of it melts Harry’s mouth, which goes instantly sloppy, slack and ready and wanting._ _

__“Harry,” Louis whines, quick and desperate, like it’s the start of some vitally important message, but before Harry can force her eyes open, Louis’s kissing her sloppy mouth with purpose. Harry feels the scrape of Louis’s little teeth, and then, god, then, the slick of her tongue._ _

__And fuck, if it’s tongues they’re doing, Harry can do tongues. She can do tongues very well, and she’s been waiting her whole life for this opportunity to prove it to Louis Tomlinson. She kisses Louis deeply and hungrily, whimpering into it because Louis’s mouth is the softest, wettest thing that she’s ever tasted, she’s probably just as soft and wet in other places, and Harry wants to get her mouth on all of it. And now she’s getting even sloppier, kissing Louis’s mouth like she’s got something to prove, like she’s trying to lick it inside out._ _

__Louis’s hands—Harry knows them, now, has felt the shape of their touch—take hold of Harry’s face, coaxing her into a deeper tilt as her mouth presses into Harry’s, reclaiming some control over her wide-mouthed sucking. Harry tries to respond to the change in rhythm and tighten up, but as soon as she does, Louis starts licking into _her_ mouth, prying it open wide and wet again. Harry crumples, slouching to bring their hips together and her face low enough for Louis to lean into._ _

__Louis’s breath cracks into a high, long moan as she steps forward, making Harry stumble backward. It’s horrible for a moment because even though Louis’s still kissing her, their _bodies_ aren’t touching. But then Louis takes another step and then another, pushing Harry into retreat with the force of her kisses, pressing until she’s pressed Harry into a long, hard thing—the barre, right, probably the barre. Nothing matters beyond the heat of Louis’s body coming between her spread legs, the plush of their chests together, the burning, barely-there padding of her pubic bone hitting Harry where it counts. And Louis’s moaning, searching mouth. Louis’s mouth matters. “God, Harry, so fucking…,” she hisses on a breath. Harry wants to know what Louis’s thinking, but she would rather taste it than hear it, so gets Louis’s tongue back in her mouth in under two seconds._ _

__Harry very suddenly remembers that she has hands, too. Her palms have been glued to Louis’s hips, picking up the vibrations of each of her movements like a seismograph. There’s all this sensory information that Harry didn’t even realize she was using, matching her own breaths to the expansion and contraction under the pads of her thumbs._ _

__Feeling Louis’s hips is amazing, but…even the mere thought of being able to touch Louis’s bum makes Harry squeak into their messy kiss. She couldn’t possibly. But she so badly wants to._ _

__First, she draws her hands up, tentatively sliding up Louis’s waist and behind. Her hands settle just above the low cut of Louis’s leotard, daringly stroking over the dewy skin of her strong back. Just that touch makes Harry shudder, makes her mouth go stupid-slack._ _

__Louis takes the opportunity of Harry’s sudden stillness to lick deeper than she has before. Harry feels her tongue at the roof of her mouth, at the inside of her cheek. Then the tremble in Louis’s jaw as she bites down on Harry’s lip, just hard enough that it feels like she’s holding back._ _

__Harry moans lightly in encouragement; she barely has enough presence of mind to do so, her focus on gearing herself up for sliding her hand down. She takes a deep breath, tasting what Louis’s breath tastes like when she’s holding herself back from biting too hard, screwing her eyes shut tighter than they already are before dipping her fingers in just beneath Louis’s waistband, into the space between her tights and her leotard. It’s warm and damp there, so much sweat trapped in the dip of her lower back. It’s fucking inspiring. In one motion, Harry shoves the rest of her hand down the back of Louis’s tights and grabs a handful of arse._ _

__“Ah!” Harry cries out like it’s an intelligent word, moved to a spiritual plane of existence by the fact that she’s touching Louis’s arse and that it feels even better, somehow, than she could have imagined. Her eyes fly open wide, and, bizarrely, the first thing she observes is that down there, between Harry’s splayed feet, Louis’s ankles are fully arched as she stands on her tip-toes. It’s for leverage, Harry realizes slowly, blinking. Leverage for holding Harry’s jaw in place and kissing her. Leverage for pushing her arse back up into Harry’s hand._ _

__So _that’s_ why there’s enough space between their bodies for Harry to look down at their feet. Louis’s arching into where Harry is groping her over her leotard. Harry considers this fact logically for about three seconds before her brain shuts down again._ _

__She squeezes hard, and _she_ winces at the pain—the pain of the beauty of Louis’s so-firm-yet-so-soft flesh giving way under her palm. She keeps whimpering pitifully into Louis’s mouth, which has slowed down its rhythm against hers. Louis’s moan is long and sanded smooth at the edges, filling in the space between Harry’s noises, kind of like how her arse is filling in the space between her fingers._ _

__Harry brushes her thumb slowly over the cotton-lycra blend until she finds the edge of Louis’s crack, stroking up and down the length of it like it’s something she’s done a million times. It’s totally cool. Harry isn’t having a heart attack. She’s only touching the crack of Louis Tomlinson’s arse through the single layer of her sweat-damp leotard._ _

__Harry’s other hand—which she has total, conscious control over, and which isn’t moving of its own accord—surges under Louis’s waistband and fits itself on the opposite side of her arse, clutching for dear life._ _

__“Louis,” she gasps out, as if she’s been victimized by what Louis has done to her, even though all Louis has done is let Harry’s hands hold the fullness of her entire arse, just as they’ve always wanted to. Harry’s hands will never be happy again. Her life will be empty from here on out unless her hands are trapped in the humid space between Louis’s elastic tights, leotard, and perfect arse._ _

__Louis’s mouth pulls back from the kiss, but her hips move in closer, so it’s not a total loss. The press of their bodies together is maddening. Harry catches her breath just under the cut of those fierce cheekbones, pushing random kisses into the heartbreakingly soft skin._ _

__“Harry…Harry, I—,” Louis’s voice dissolves into shudders as her hands trail down Harry’s neck, shoulders, arms, onto her ribs, just beneath her breasts. Harry takes that as permission and slides one of her lucky, lucky hands between them and up onto the warm, supple handful of Louis’s breast._ _

__“Wow,” Harry whispers in awe, like she’s making an offering to a shrine, stroking her thumb over the spot where she knows Louis’s nipple is, where she has seen it hard and straining through her leotard before. A second later, it’s hard under her thumb, and both of Harry’s hands squeeze tighter on instinct. She rests her brow on Louis’s shoulder, looking down at Louis’s trembling sternum._ _

__It occurs to Harry that she should feel bad for conducting herself like a twelve-year-old boy. She can do better than that. She needs Louis to know that she can do better than that. With her nose pressing against Louis’s neck, she mumbles, “I could eat you out so good.” Her knees go weak just _saying_ it, at how badly she wants to drop down onto them this second and actually do it._ _

__The words have some effect on Louis, as well. Her breath stops, then stutters. Her stomach pressing into Harry’s when they both inhale, closer than Harry could have reasonably hoped to be, is a beautiful thing. “Wait, what?” Louis asks, her voice evaporated into a soft squeak._ _

__Harry gives up all the heat of everywhere they’re touching and drops to her knees. Her head smacks against the barre on her way down, but it’s alright. “I’ll be really good,” she promises intimately to the mound of Louis’s pubic bone and the swell of flesh curving below it. She’s transfixed by the shaking of Louis’s thighs as they twitch closer together. Sometimes, when Louis wears her uniform pink tights, the vague, dark shadow of her pubic hair appears at the seams of her thighs. Harry wonders if she can find the texture of those hairs with her tongue through the tights she’s wearing now, so she lowers her mouth to try, overwhelmed by the strong, builtup, tangy sweat-smell coming from Louis. Harry wants to know how wet she is, how much of it is sweat._ _

__“Harry!” Louis cries out, her voice still airy but urgent enough to make Harry pause mid-sniff. She swallows the excess amount of water in her mouth, whining a bit. When Louis grabs her by the ponytail and pulls her back, Harry whimpers at that, too._ _

__It takes Harry a moment to focus, but when she does, she notices that Louis’s eyes are wide, that her mouth is hanging open. Harry has seen her panting so many times, but never _for her_. She licks her lips to make them wet, telling her, “Promise, m’really good.”_ _

__The sound that Louis lets out is just short of a laugh. She moves like her legs are shaking from exhaustion (and Harry hasn’t even made her _come_ yet), adjusting herself so that she’s holding onto the barre behind Harry’s head before lowering her body carefully into a kneel. Harry grabs Louis’s hips to help steady her, sitting back on her haunches to create an inviting surface out of her thighs. She feels a religious rush of joy in her chest as Louis gets closer, her breasts coming terribly close to Harry’s face. “ _Yes_ ,” she whispers as Louis finally straddles her, one knee on either side of Harry’s lap._ _

__Harry leans forward to get her face on _something_ , but she’s stopped by a hand at the base of her skull, grabbing her by the scruff of the neck, thin little nails digging into her skin. Harry can’t believe that someone can be scruffed like a dog _delicately_ , but here she is. “Mmmm,” she gurgles eloquently, her gaze darting all over Louis’s face. Louis’s face, which she has _kissed_._ _

__Louis’s voice comes out soft and gentle, almost shy, as she says, “I don’t want my first time to be in Paula’s studio.”_ _

__Harry admires her eyes for a long moment: the clear blue of them, lined by those exquisitely long, dark lashes, the good-humoured crinkles at the corners. Louis blinks, and only then does Harry hear what she’s said. At first, she feels nothing. “First time?” she asks quietly, just to make sure she heard correctly. Then, she feels a burst of desire further wetting the inside of her tights. Holy _shit_._ _

__Louis bites down on her lower lip, half-smiling. _First_. Harry would be her _first_. There are probably patriarchy-related reasons for why this shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Harry’s burning up. “You, er, didn’t know that, did you?” Louis asks, looking so carefully into Harry’s eyes, like she’s deeply invested in what she finds there._ _

__Harry shakes her head slowly, so as not to dislodge the grounding hand on her neck. First _what_? First girl? First person to go down on her? First sex, like, at all? She wants to ask for details, but her mouth is dry from hanging open. She’s sure she looks like a crazy person, staring up at Louis with wet eyes and bursting at the seams like a child who needs to pee._ _

__“Are you… is that disappointing?”_ _

__Harry feels her eyes go even wider. She nearly chokes on her tongue in her haste to answer, exhaling a quick, “Fuck, Louis.” She may not know how to process this “first time” concept, and the fact that Louis is, like…not one hundred percent confident. But she sure as hell knows that nothing about this is _disappointing_. She wants to take Louis home and show her everything she knows. She wants to make sure that Louis knows she could give Harry nothing but closed-lip kisses, and it wouldn’t be disappointing at all. She just wants Louis._ _

__Thankfully, Louis doesn’t seem too worried about being a disappointment. So what if her coyness has a vein of actual shyness running through it; she’s still coy. She flicks Harry’s ponytail into the air with a finger. “Fuck, Louis, but not at the dance studio?” she offers as a teasing compromise, looking at the top of Harry’s head. Harry’s face feels very neglected._ _

__Harry tries to talk again, just to get Louis to meet her eyes, murmuring, “I’ll, er, I’ll do anything you want.” Louis parts Harry’s hair into two pieces and tugs, pulling the ponytail tighter. It feels so good that it sends Harry into a panic of trying not to tackle this girl who has just requested not to have her _first time_ be in a dance studio. “I’ll make you dinner, if you want. I’ll let you have me in any position, really, _any_. I’ll quit ballet if it’s too, y’know, weird to share a class with your girlfriend.”_ _

__Louis looks at her then, and Harry shuts her mouth when she realizes what she just said, what she assumed. Louis is mercifully quick to ask, quietly and clearly, “You want to be my girlfriend?”_ _

__Harry shifts slightly on her numb, folded legs, but there’s no dodging it. “I’ve wanted that since I was twelve.”_ _

__Louis laughs, short but loud. Harry’s face is burning up, it’s probably beet red at this point, but she can’t care. Louis’s too pretty, and she’s perched over Harry’s lap, possibly-hopefully- _probably_ about to agree to make Harry’s preteen wishes come true. The air of her laughter tastes so good, and Harry’s dizzy with wanting to kiss her again, if she’s allowed to._ _

__Like a magnet, Harry leans in toward Louis’s mouth, but right before she’s about to go in for the kill, she recalls that she’s been making assumptions of Louis and that she should probably start asking things directly instead. “Can I kiss you?” she asks, watching closely as Louis’s tongue darts out to wet her pretty pink lips._ _

__“Yes,” Louis answers, blissfully fast, like she wants it, too. Harry kisses her, and the world outside of their sliding lips disappears just as quickly as it did the first time._ _

__When Louis’s hands skate down Harry’s sternum and rest lightly over her breasts, Harry can feel Louis’s heart rate speeding and crashing into their kiss, like Harry can taste her pulse. It’s beautiful. Just as much so now that Harry knows Louis’s heart might be racing because she’s _nervous_ , or because she’s never touched a girl like this, or because she’s thought about touching Harry before. Harry has to stop thinking lest any of these thoughts make her lose her mind and forget that she needs to be taking care of Louis just as well as Louis is taking care of her._ _

__When Louis’s lips pull away from hers, it’s with a happy hum. Harry obsessively licks the taste of Louis’s saliva off her own lips, holding onto anything that she can get as Louis’s hands slide back up to her shoulders._ _

__“Please don’t quit ballet,” Louis whispers before she opens her eyes. And Harry knows she hasn’t opened her eyes because she’s watching every flicker of Louis’s eyelashes against her cheek, close enough to kiss. When Louis’s eyes do flash open, the sudden constriction of her pupils in the light nearly knocks Harry over. “If you did, what would we have to talk about on our dates?” Louis asks innocently, as though she doesn’t upend Harry’s world every time she looks at her, let alone every time she hints they’ll be doing anything together in the future._ _

__“Erm,” Harry starts, searching dazedly for an appropriate reply. “Politics. I could tell you about the time I saw Rihanna. Or, like, we could talk about what we’re eating.”_ _

__Louis laughs again, lighter and longer this time, like she’s getting comfortable in it. Harry could get used to making her laugh, even if she doesn’t understand what’s so funny about her proposed conversation points in the event that she quits ballet. “Oh, so _now_ you want to get food?” Louis teases._ _

__Harry furrows her brow. She has layers of confusion going back all the way to the part where four pretty, older girls actually complimented her dancing. “I mean, I pretty much always want food…,” she reflects. “What do you mean, _now_?”_ _

__With a smile, Louis puts her hands over Harry’s and pries them off her hips. Then she holds Harry’s hands, which feels terribly sweet and natural and weirdly sexy, possibly because their hands are resting on top of Louis’s all-powerful thighs. “I mean,” she says, squeezing Harry’s fingers against her palm, “I was _trying_ to ask you out to lunch before you started kissing me like a ten-year-old boy.” Harry looks up, suddenly feeling afraid that she did something very wrong. Upon meeting Harry’s alarmed gaze, Louis drops her smile. “I mean, a really sexy ten-year-old boy. No...ew...I mean, it was _really good_ , Harry. Best kiss of me life, I just… I tease all my friends, it’s just how I talk, but—”_ _

__Harry latches onto the most important piece of information, interrupting her with, “I’m the best kiss of your life?” She tries to stay humble, but she can feel smugness wiping the uncertainty off her face._ _

__Louis seems appeased by Harry’s smugness. The smile returns to her face as she ducks her head. “Could we…talk about this over some chips?”_ _

__Right. They’re supposed to _not_ be doing things in the dance studio. Also, Harry and Louis are obviously meant to be. “Of course, we can...I _love_ chips,” she announces, squeezing Louis’s hands in return._ _

__When Louis turns the full force of her warm, delicate smile on Harry, it all sinks in. They’re going to go on a date. They’re going to be girlfriends. They’ll get to kiss some more, and Harry will get to find out exactly which _firsts_ she gets to be. Harry will get to see sexy-confident Louis _and_ sexy-uncertain Louis _and_ kiss-dizzy Louis._ _

__Louis unfolds easily so that she’s standing over Harry, who gazes longingly at the crotch of her tights, the place where she might someday get to suck until the leotard is soaked through. Only there wouldn’t need to be a leotard, if they were somewhere else. She might get to taste nothing but pure Louis someday, and that’s an astounding state of being._ _

__After what is perhaps a long moment, Louis bends at the waist and grabs Harry by the chin, tilting her gaze up. “You’re holding your breath, Harry.” It’s true. Harry lets out all her collected breath, watching Louis lick the air that she exhales. “That’s a bad habit.” She presses a soft, careful kiss to Harry’s parted lips, and Harry thinks it’s fine if she never gets to breathe again._ _


End file.
